


He Can't Speak

by Doteruna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mute Stiles, Protective Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-07-02
Packaged: 2018-02-07 03:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1883478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doteruna/pseuds/Doteruna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is shot through the throat during a fight with a group of rogue hunters. He survives, but loses the ability to speak. How will he cope? How will Derek cope?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

When the hunter aimed his gun over Derek's shoulder, he ignored it. He figured the man was aiming at one of the other wolves; they could take the hit. The small group of rogue hunters had rudimentary weapons and even worse tactics, trying to take out the Hale pack in the dead of night. They were fast, Derek would give them that, but so far they had only been able to stall his attacks, not wound him past a few grazed bullets. Not even wolfsbane, either. 

So when the hunter squeezed the trigger, Derek let it happen. He knew whichever wolf it was aimed at would be fine.

Only, it wasn't intended for a wolf. 

Derek whipped around as the smell of human blood filled the air. The bullet had nicked Stiles' forearm, but the wound was small and Stiles continued to fire his father's gun at the hunters, who were scrambling to deflect both bullets and claws. Derek tried to claw the hunter who was firing at the human, but two more shots were fired before Derek removed the hunter's arm from his body. 

Derek watched in horror as Stiles collapsed, blood spraying from his right shoulder. It wasn't an immediately fatal wound; maybe the second bullet had missed? He ran to the teen, sliding to a halt on his knees. He relaxed as he saw that the bullet had gone cleanly through Stiles' shoulder, but then he screamed his rage as he saw the dark crimson blood dripping from Stiles' neck. 

Derek roared in fury as Stiles grasped weakly at his shirt, his mouth flapping open and closed as he tried to speak. Nothing came out except the gurgling of blood; Derek yelled again, howling for his pack to hurry as he searched for Stiles' phone, pulling it out of the boy's pocket and dialing 911. Stiles looked up at him, blood flowing down his pale skin before his eyes rolled back and he blacked out.

 

"Mr. Hale?"  
Derek jerked awake from where he'd fallen asleep, his muscular frame pushed into the small hospital chair. The short doctor in front of him waited for him to blink, forcing himself aware. "Mr. Stilinski is out of surgery if you'd like to see him. He's not awake yet, but we expect the anesthesia to wear off within a few hours."

Derek nodded numbly and stood, following the small woman down the hallway. He'd been at the hospital for ten hours now, waiting as Stiles was rushed into surgery. The rest of the pack had gone home, unable to stay as Derek had been willing to. Scott had been the last one to leave, promising that he'd contact Stiles' father as soon as he could. The Sheriff was at some county meeting a few hours away. 

Derek scrubbed his face before the doctor opened a door and led him inside. Stiles was laying on the hospital bed, sickly pale and looking so small, so frail amidst the thick white sheets and swathes of bandages that covered him. His shoulder and forearm were bandaged, but his neck was completely wrapped with white gauze and tape. 

"We were able to close his ruptured trachea and luckily, the bullet missed any major arteries. The shoulder wound was clean; with a few months of physical therapy, he should regain full function of the arm. We won't know anything else until he wakes up."

 

Derek had fallen asleep again, his head on the mattress by Stiles' hand when he felt fingers carding through his hair. He shot upright, grabbing Stiles' hand in his own and squeezing. Stiles smiled at him and squeezed back, his honey eyes shining. A nurse walked in to take his vitals down, but Derek ignored her.

"How do you feel?" he asked. "Are you still in pain?"

Stiles stared sadly at him, then opened his mouth. He worked his jaw a few times, but no noise came out. He closed it. 

Derek felt his chest tighten.

"Stiles?" he whispered, his fingers clenching against Stiles'. The boy shook his head slowly. "What's wrong with him?" he demanded, looking at the nurse. She glanced at the chart, then gave Derek that same sad look.

"Didn't they tell you? The bullet shredded his larynx. He can't speak."


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The story isn't over yet, I just don't know how much I'll be able to update. Suggestions are welcome

Derek froze.

"He...what?" he said dumbly. Stiles gripped his hand, getting his attention. Derek turned his huge eyes to his mate. 

They'd been together for about six months now. As soon as Stiles had turned eighteen, he'd confessed to Derek. Derek had, of course, been crushing hard on the annoying, smart, mouthy teen for months, and at Stiles' urging they had attempted a relationship. It had worked out, and within a few weeks of being active, Derek mated Stiles. He'd known for a while that Stiles was his mate, but hadn't wanted to bring it up until Stiles told him how he felt. 

Now, Derek felt that his world was crashing down. Stiles? Unable to speak? That wasn't possible, Stiles was the most talkative person he knew. This couldn't be happening. 

"No," he breathed, but Stiles just cupped his face in his hands and pulled him in close, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. Derek shut his eyes and rested his forehead on his mate's, his fists bundled in the sheets so that the nurse couldn't see his claws ripping into the fabric. "No, no, no. This isn't happening, not to you. This can't happen."

He drew back, and he realized Stiles was crying, tears rolling silently down his cheeks, his eyes filled with fear and worry. The nurse set a pad of paper and a pen on the bedside table, and Stiles picked them up, scrawling something across the sheet. 

I'm sorry.

"For what?" Derek demanded, suddenly angry. "I fucked up, Stiles, I didn't get him fast enough. It's my fault, this is all my fault. Don't you dare apologize, you asshole, I--"

He cut himself off, choking on his words as Stiles tossed the paper down and wrapped weak arms around him, pulling him in for a hug and another, harder, kiss. 

"Will this be permanent?" he asked the nurse, who was purposefully avoiding the intimate display. She nodded.

"There's no way his body can heal that sort of injury," she said quietly. "They've listed him as mute."

At that, Derek really did sob, sitting on the mattress and leaning over Stiles, wrapping his strong arms around him as if he could protect him. But he'd already proven that he couldn't, not really. His wolf was whining, as if they could feel Stiles' pain. They could, in a way; they could feel his mental anguish as the boy pulled him down, eventually moving over enough that Derek could lie on the bed too, Stiles curled to his chest. 

That was how the rest of the pack found them; Derek, wrapped possessively around Stiles, his eyes red from crying and Stiles fast asleep, too exhausted to keep his eyes open any longer. Scott took Derek's seat next to the bed and Allison sat in his lap, carefully brushing her fingers across Stiles' brow. Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson and Lydia took places around the room, hopping up on counters or settling against the doorframe. 

"His dad will be here any minute," Scott said quietly, but it was enough to wake Stiles. The human had trained his body over the last few years, and now he slept lightly, ready to wake up at any sign of danger or change in the environment. It was just a slow blink of his long lashes, but Derek was there, kissing his neck and whispering. 

"Hey," he said softly. Stiles opened his mouth, then snapped it shut, as if remembering that he could no longer talk. He motioned for the pen and paper, sitting up with Derek's help.

What time is it?

"Almost two a.m.," Lydia supplied, checking her phone.

Where's my dad?

"He should be here any time," Scott told him. Stiles nodded, then thought for a moment. 

I'm sorry.

Then, before Derek could say anything, he added something.

For not being more careful. 

"It's not your fault," Derek assured him. He hated that his mate felt this way. "We killed them all. Argent is taking care of the mess."

Stiles nodded again and set the pad down, then buried his face in Derek's neck, his back to the others. They got the hint and left, telling Derek to call for them if there was anything they could do. 

 

Stiles cried again when John got there a half hour later. Derek was sitting up with Stiles leaned against his broad chest, almost asleep until the door smacked open and he jerked. 

"Stiles," John practically yelled, rushing forwards and gathering his son into his arms. "I'm so sorry, Stiles."

John had tried to blame Derek. It wasn't like him, but he was stressed and angry and worried, and he tried to say that Derek had gotten Stiles involved. 

Stiles threw a lamp at him, and John finally broke down and cried with his son, apologizing and promising that he'd do everything he could with the doctors to help him. He convinced the hospital director to grand Derek free access to Stiles' room, although he most likely wouldn't be leaving it without Stiles in tow. 

 

Hours later, when the sun was rising and Stiles was falling asleep again, the Sheriff back at home, Derek kissed Stiles' forehead and leaned his head back against the wall, his mate curled to his body. 

"I love you," he told the boy, knowing that Stiles had never said the words himself and now he would never get the chance. Stiles stiffened, then turned so that his mouth was pressed to Derek's neck. 

He breathed the words out, his lips moving but no sound escaping. Still, Derek knew what Stiles had said. 

I love you too, Sourwolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any suggestions for the rest of the story are welcome, along with CONSTRUCTIVE criticism. No haters, you guys suck. :3


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles struggle to communicate.

Derek watched Stiles struggled with the can opener, trying to open the canned soup with only one working hand. His right arm was heavily bandaged, kept in a sling so that he would't aggravate the muscles while they healed. His neck was still covered in gauze as well, but it had been almost a week and the heavier padding had been removed, leaving a few layers of white cloth to protect the wound. 

Derek had seen both injuries, when the nurses came in to change the bandages. He hadn't left Stiles' side the entire six days, his wolf whining and growling whenever Stiles was out of eyesight. The shoulder wound itself wasn't so bad; the bullet had torn clean through the muscle above his collar bone, exiting through his back and thankfully leaving no infections. Stiles' neck, however, was a different story. The bullet had also gone through, but on it's way it had ripped through his larynx and nicked his trachea. Blood spilled into his lungs, but they got him to a hospital in time for the surgery to clean it out. He had an inhaler that he took three times a day to keep the newly-closed section of trachea clean and open, but breathing was still a struggle. 

It would heal in time, but his larynx would not. His voice-box had suffered the most damage, the bullet shearing most of it away before punching through his neck on the other side. It had entered just under the curve of his jaw on the right side, travelling at a slight downwards angle to exit a few centimeters lower on the left. Stiles couldn't make any sound now that required the use of that destroyed organ; he couldn't laugh, only push air out harder through his nose in little puffs. Theoretically, he could whistle because that was just blowing air through your teeth, but Stiles had never learned how and now was not a good time. Besides, busted trachea made any hard breathing pretty difficult.

After watching the can for a few more moments, Derek gently bumped Stiles out of the way and opened it with his claws. Stiles punched Derek's bicep lightly with his good arm, the words unspoken.

Showoff.

Derek just smiled softly and poured the soup into a pot on the stove, heating it up. John had asked Derek to stay at home with Stiles while he was at work after he'd been released from the hospital. As if Derek was going to do anything else except stick with Stiles. 

"What do you want to watch?" he asked as Stiles flumped down onto the couch, the bowl of soup and a spoon being delivered to him as soon as he was settled. Stiles reached for the ever-present white board his father had bought him, scrawling a few words. 

We need to talk.

Derek raised a mocking eyebrow.

Okay, you need to talk. I need to write. 

It had become clear over the last few days that writing down everything he wanted to say was annoying and impractical. It was slow and Stiles talked so fast normally that it was impossible for his hands to keep up; plus, he was right-handed, and since that one was in a sling he had to write even slower with his left. Derek had instantly scoured the internet for ways to communicate, and Stiles couldn't even type on his laptop with only one hand. Sign language was the best option, but again, only one hand. 

The doctors had told Derek it would take anywhere from one to three months for Stiles to regain full use of his right arm and hand, although it was expected that he would make a full recovery. The pack was over whenever they could, offering to help them with anything. Lydia was already teaching herself ASL, the smartass, fully planning to teach Stiles once his arm was better. Scott brought his homework from school and Isaac, Jackson and Boyd kept him up to date with lacrosse. Even so, Stiles was miserable.

I did some digging. The hunters were only a part of a larger group, he wrote. Derek frowned.

"What do you mean, larger group? These guys were terrible," he said. Stiles nodded.

Yeah, but they were the noobs of a SoCal group that's been clashing with the Argents for generations. This isn't over. 

"I'll talk to Chris," Derek promised. "We'll put them down."

Stiles knew that Chris would agree. The Argents didn't hurt innocent wolves, let alone humans. It was against their code and this rival group of hunters would pay the price for shooting a human. Still, that didn't change the result of the attack.

I don't want to do this. Writing. It's slow and it makes me think about what I want to say. It's not like me.

"I know," Derek said quietly, pushing the soup to the side table and pulling Stiles towards him. "ASL is the best choice. We just need to wait for your hand to heal," he whispered. "Until then, I'll do what I can. I already understand you better than anyone else."

It was true. Perhaps it was because of their mating bond, or maybe it was just luck, but Derek had effectively been able to translate Stiles' expressions and gestures until the boy got his point across. Even John, who had initially blamed Derek, quickly realized that there was no way Stiles was letting Derek leave. John had had his suspicions about their relationship for months, but coming into the hospital room and seeing Derek spooning his son had kind of given them away. 

"I trust you'll protect my son," John had said a day later. "I know he wouldn't leave the pack for the world, despite how dangerous it is. Just keep my son safe."

Except that Derek hadn't. That was the worse part; if he'd bothered to block the hunter when he'd raised the gun, then those shots never would have been fired and Stiles would still be in one piece. Stiles denied it, but Derek knew it was partially his fault. 

Sourwolf. Stop blaming yourself.

Stiles didn't write it down, but Derek got the message with the kick Stiles delivered to his shin. He hugged his mate tighter and pressed a hard kiss to his lips. 

"You're dad won't be home for a few more hours. What do you want to do?" 

Stiles turned a baleful eye towards him. Derek grinned.

"You feel up to it?"

Stiles just smirked and palmed Derek's denim-clad crotch.


End file.
